


Explicit

by Robottko



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Meetings, From Sex to Love, Kidnapping, Lust at First Sight, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Porn With Plot, casefic, porn star au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-29
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-16 13:01:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/862313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robottko/pseuds/Robottko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a few of the adult entertainers at Treasure Island Media drop dead from seemingly accidental causes, no one bats an eyelash. That is, until one of them leaves a note...<br/>Now Sherlock must find the person responsible for these deaths, or someone else may die, particularly a short blond who goes by the stage name John, and Sherlock's current obsession.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Though hardly my first fanfic, this is my first smut fic, so please be warned. Trigger warnings include rape/non-con in later chapters (I will mark the chapters this occurs in, don't you worry!) And while Treasure Island Media is a real pornography distributor, I am not affiliated with them in any way.
> 
> Disclaimer: I am Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and I totally own everything. This is the new canon. Enjoy it. Embrace it.*
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> *This fact has not been proven true.

It had been almost two weeks since Sherlock’s last case, and he was practically seething. He had discovered that texting Detective Inspector Lestrade constantly in those two weeks caused the man to stop replying to him, which is why he was currently pacing the good inspector’s flat rather impatiently. The silver haired man followed Sherlock with his eyes, his facial expression showing clearly how weary he was.

“Sherlock, I’ve already told you, I’ve nothing going on!” Lestrade said, the statement sounding well worn. “I’ve got a missing dog, two accidental porn star deaths, and mysterious graffiti popping up everywhere. Not exactly your favourite sorts of cases.”

Sherlock sighed dramatically, shooting a glare at the older man. He spun on the spot dramatically, looking around the room as if to find something to do.

“No.” Lestrade scolded, watching as Sherlock’s eyes flitted about the room. “You need to leave. Last time you came over here, you broke three mugs and my ex-wife’s tea kettle.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. Lestrade glared back, mirroring Sherlock’s image. The brunette finally broke eye contact, heaving another great sigh as he stomped over to the door.

“You will call me as soon as you get a case.” Sherlock demanded, his hand on the door handle.

“Of course. Now get out of here.” Lestrade said, waving him away. With a whirl of his greatcoat, Sherlock left Lestrade’s flat, setting a beeline for his flat on Montague Street.

 

* * *

 

 

The first time Sherlock Holmes watched pornography, he was twenty years old and as high as a kite. He had heard through several sources that an old college friend had joined the porn business. His moniker, Victor Trembles, was not all that different than his legal name of Trevor, though highly distasteful. The entire business was highly distasteful, in fact, and if he hadn’t acquired the tape from his dealer, he would have set fire to it right then and there.

His dealer, clearly thinking he had liked the videos, made sure to include a new ‘Victor Trembles’ video each time he bought cocaine. Sherlock watched all of them with growing revulsion, and he would have sworn off sex entirely if his dealer hadn’t been entirely incompetent and mixed up his customer’s tapes.

Sherlock had grudgingly popped in the tape, sitting down to prepare his seven percent solution when the man on screen began to moan. It sent shivers up his spine, and his lower half twitched with interest. Glancing up at the screen, he was surprised to see that the tape wasn’t of Victor at all, but a different man instead.

He looked to be about twenty-five, made entirely of tanned skin and muscles. Shaggy blond hair danced across his forehead, framing his amazing blue eyes. Sherlock watched with growing interest as the man on screen began to stroke himself lazily, his gaze focused on the camera. The brunette found himself matching the man on screen stroke for stroke, and there in that dingy flat in London, Sherlock had his first orgasm, his vials and needles completely forgotten.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock quickly turned his experience with the video into an experiment of sorts. He learned the man, who simply went by ‘John’, was a well thought of porn star. He had won several awards, including a ‘Grabby’ and a ‘Probie’. It was very clear to Sherlock just how popular John was in the industry.

After discovering who he was, Sherlock quickly made his way through the man’s impressive repertoire, and he discovered that it didn’t matter if John was solo, with a man, woman, or in a group, no matter what he did, the blond turned him on.

Then he attempted to produce the same results while watching other pornography videos. It became apparent rather quickly that if John was not present, he wasn’t interested.

 

* * *

 

 

Eight years, and several damaged flats later, and this was still the case.

Sherlock arrived at his flat on Montague Street rather quickly, darting up the stairs and locking the door behind him.  Removing his jacket and scarf, Sherlock let them fall to the floor in a haphazard pile before moving to his room, his long fingers grabbing at a well watched DVD as he went.

Even though Sherlock could get off with any of John’s videos, his favourites were the solo acts. He preferred it when it was just him and John, no useless idiot in the background messing things up.

Sherlock slid the DVD into the player, half-hard before the video even started. Sherlock removed his trousers, sliding onto the bed as John appeared on screen, clad in nothing but red pants.

Sherlock pulled himself out of his own pants, his hand wrapped around himself as he watched John take out his cock and begin to stroke himself. Sherlock matched John’s motions like he always did, pretending that John was stroking him, and he was stroking John. God, what he wouldn’t give to be the one to be making John moan and pant like he did in his videos.

Keeping his eyes locked on the screen, he swiped his finger across the head of his cock, shuddering slightly at the small jolt of pleasure. He repeated the motion, pleased to find that he was already leaking pre-come. He smeared it across his hand, using it as lubricant.

“John…” Sherlock panted, stoking himself with renewed vigour. Though he had memorised every moan and gasp John made in this video, it always went straight to his cock. “John…oh god…”

Biting his lips to keep himself quiet, Sherlock watched as John threw his head back in bliss, his rips rolling against the friction of his own hand. Then he did something that never failed to make Sherlock come no matter how many times he watched the video.

Sitting up, John gazed directly at the camera, lust and desire clear in his eyes. For one brief second, Sherlock could pretend that John was looking at him like that, wanting him in that way. And sure enough, Sherlock came entirely too easy, hot ribbons decorating his chest as he cried out John’s name.

And even though Sherlock had gotten his pleasure, his cock growing flaccid rapidly, he still watched as John pleasured himself, only turning off the DVD once John had orgasmed.  It was one of his favourite things in the world, next to serial murders and his skull, Billy. The blond always looked perfect as he came, cheeks flushed, chest heaving, pleasure written across his face. A masterpiece.

As soon as he flicked off his DVD player, Sherlock grabbed a flannel and wiped the drying semen off of his chest before falling into bed, a small smile still on his face as he drifted off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grabby- Grabby Awards (Adult Erotic Gay Video Awards)
> 
> Probie- The Probies  
> (Men in video awards) are designed to be the 'People's choice awards' for the gay pornography industry.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock was up long before the 6:00 A.M. text from Lestrade arrived, his mind already in a state of agitated boredom. His toes were busy digging into the brown leather of his sofa, his hands folded under his chin as if in prayer. The sound of his mobile beeping brought him back to reality, and he allowed himself a few seconds to smugly smile before lunging for his phone. The smile grew wider when he saw the text was from Lestrade.

 

**_Scotland Yard. Break in porn star case. Need you immediately. GL_ **

****

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, pulling himself into something resembling an upright stance. Sherlock had heard of the case briefly, but he had brushed it off as accidental deaths. Both men perished from allergic reactions, one was deathly allergic to nuts, the other happened to be allergic to bee stings. Neither of them were at the studio when the deaths occurred, but rather at home.

 

**_What’s different about this one? SH_ **

****

Sherlock walked to his room, quickly putting on his normal attire before heading out the door. Montague was only a quick cab ride away from the Met. He hailed a cab just as his mobile beeped again.

 

**_He left a note. GL_ **

****

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his mobile as the cab began to move. A note was always interesting, especially in a case that Sherlock had already brushed off as suicides. A killer that could make him believe that nothing was out of the ordinary? True, he never did see the crime scene, but he could normally suss out the good crimes just by police report alone. The cab pulled up in front of The New Scotland Yard, and Sherlock was surprised to see Lestrade already waiting for him.

“I know you don’t like riding in police cars, but the address to this place is hush hush.” Lestrade said by way of greeting, ushering Sherlock to the car as soon as the man had paid the cabbie and exited his cab. “They barely gave it to us, and you can’t find it on the internet.”

“Please. As if I couldn’t find this place.” Sherlock sneered, climbing unwillingly into the back of the car. Lestrade followed suit, buckling his seatbelt before starting the car. “What is the name of the company?”

“Treasure Island Media.” Lestrade replied easily, failing to notice Sherlock perk up with interest as he entered traffic.  “Not that you would know it, of course. You can’t even remember that the earth goes ‘round the sun half the time.” Lestrade chuckled to himself, causing Sherlock to scowl.

“Do not think me so ignorant, Lestrade.” Sherlock huffed. “The solar system isn’t important in my line of work. Porn industries, however, can be. Sex, and everything it entails, connects quite well with a majority of my cases, or have you forgotten that?”

Lestrade snorted instead of responding, and the rest of their drive was spent in silence. Sherlock watched the buildings of London fly by, and he correctly guessed the location of Treasure Island media ten minutes before they arrived.

Sherlock stepped out of the vehicle the moment it stopped moving, earning himself several choice swearwords from the Detective Inspector. With a dramatic swirl of his greatcoat, Sherlock made his way up to the building, Lestrade running to keep up with him.

The pair were greeted at the door by a portly man with a thin moustache. His hair was greasy, slicked flat unto his head with an overabundance of hair product, and his overpowering cologne could be smelled from Lestrade’s car. The man opened his arms, as if welcoming old friends, and his grin stretch wide across his face.

“Welcome, welcome!” He boomed, his voice, though higher than Sherlock’s, was gravelly. “My name is Maxwell Jones, and I am the owner of this fine establishment. Nice to meet you, Detective Inspector.” He held out his hand for Sherlock to shake, and the brunet eyed the hand with ill-concealed contempt.

“I am not the Detective Inspector.” Sherlock said, stepping to the side to reveal a slightly red-faced Lestrade. “This man is. I am Sherlock Holmes, the Consulting Detective.”

“Of course, of course.” Jones said, turning to Lestrade. Their handshake was quick, if not professional, and Jones turned once more to face the pair of them. “Nasty business we have in here. The third of my men to die from allergy related incidents in the past month...”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, side stepping Jones to enter the building. The portly man let out a sound of surprise, and Sherlock could hear the Detective Inspector muttering some sort of apology to the man, though Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to care what it was. He made his way down the long hallway, pausing before the dressing room of one Oliver Witte.

The man himself was slumped low in a soft looking armchair, one arm was draped across his stomach, the other hanging over his chair. He was wearing nothing but a robe which had just started to pull open, revealing a line of skin from his collarbone to the base of his cock. Sherlock walked slowly around the chair, not bothering to take his eyes off Witte as Lestrade and Jones entered the room.

“Allergic to strawberries. Horrendously so, I’m afraid.” Jones told Lestrade in a stage whisper. “He had a salad brought up to him before a shoot, and the dressing was mixed with strawberry juices, it appears.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked up to Jones momentarily, a frown on his face. “I suppose that was in the note Witte left?” He asked, moving from the dead man to Jones. “I would like to see it.”

Jones jerked his head towards the table where a plastic container was still sitting. Though the contents of the plate were almost gone, a few scraps of lettuce and a smear of dressing was still on the container.

“Lestrade, get a sample of the dressing. I want to see if it was just strawberry in the dressing. Jones, where is the note?”

“Under the plate.” Jones replied, walking over and moving the container. On the table, carved into the wood with a pen were three words:

 

**Strwbry. Murder. John.**

Sherlock read over the words several times, his lips pursing. “Clearly he knew his murderer, and the man was either in the room, or he was worried that the murderer would return. If he believed his murderer to be long gone, he would have written a longer note than this, and most likely on paper. No, he carved the note into the table with a usable writing utensil; the ink is visible in the carved letters. Not only did he carve it in, but he hid it under his plate so it wouldn’t be noticed if the man popped in to check on him. Oh, this is brilliant.”

Sherlock whirled around, looking at the man in curiosity. “Now, how does he connect to the other porn stars? That’s the true question. Why would these three men be targeted?”

“Competition?” Lestrade suggested from the corner of the room.

“A possibility.” Sherlock responded, turning once more from the body. “I will need access to the homes of the other victims, of course. It’s always best to see where everyone died to get the correct picture.”

“But everything has been cleaned up!” Lestrade said, watching as Sherlock moved across the room. “There isn’t any evidence there!”

“Doesn’t matter.” Sherlock replied flippantly, walking out of Witte’s dressing room. “I need to see where they were when they died. You lot always leave behind the biggest evidence. It’s a wonder you catch anyone, really.” Sherlock shot Lestrade a look over his shoulder before turning back around. That was when he saw him.

Sherlock knew what company John worked for. He would have to be completely unobservant to not have learned that little detail. The third word in Witte’s note confirmed the fact, but Sherlock never believed that he would see the man here. Sherlock stopped in his tracks, causing a distracted Lestrade to run into him in the process. It was in that moment, with a cursing Lestrade behind him, that John turned to look. Blue eyes locking with grey.

_Oh!_

Sherlock worked to keep his face impassive as John flashed the pair of them a bright smile, waving off the unimportant person he had been chatting with away.

“Hello there, you must be with the Scotland Yard.” John said as he reached them. “Thanks for coming in on short notice.”

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock asked quickly. It had been a question he had been dying to know ever since he deduced that the low number of videos during a four year duration of John’s career had come about because he had joined the army.

“Sorry, Afghanistan…how did you-” John began, surprise crossing his face.

“Sherlock, not now.” Lestrade cut John off, looking annoyed. “I’m sorry, Mr…”

“Watson. John Watson.” John replied, a silent thrill going through Sherlock at learning the man’s last name finally. “He…how did you know that?” John asked, turning back to Sherlock. The brunet was surprised to see interest, and not the normal disgust on John’s face.

“I didn’t know, I saw.” Sherlock replied. “Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective.” Sherlock held out his leather clad hand, quickly giving John’s hand a shake before returning it to his pocket.

“Nice to meet you, Mr Holmes.” John said, a slow smile appearing on his face. Sherlock shifted, unsure of how to react.

“Sherlock, please.” He said, straightening his posture until he was ram-rod straight. “I believe you are aware that your life is threatened.”

“Sherlock!” Lestrade cut in, his voice weary.

“No, it’s alright.” John said, shaking his head. “I’m the one who found Oliver. I saw the note.”

“Yet you aren’t afraid.” Sherlock commented, his interest in John growing by the second. Oh, he was so much better in real life.

“I was a soldier.” John pointed out, a wry grin on his face. “I’m used to the death threats, though not from civilians, I suppose.”

Sherlock watched as John licked his lip, a wonderful habit of his, before speaking. “If you come upon any trouble, don’t hesitate to call.” He smoothly pulled out a business card with his name, number and website on it.

“This doesn’t have an address.” John commented, his eyes crinkling with another smile. Sherlock fought once again to keep himself in check.

“I’ve moved addresses so many times, it’s not worth it to put it on there.” He said, his voice falsely bored. “I’m currently living in a flat on Montague, though I highly suspect that I’ll be kicked out this afternoon. Thankfully there’s a landlady on Baker Street who knows me well. I believe I shall be able to live there for a while.”

“Going to be kicked out?” John asked, his eyes moving from Sherlock’s card back to his face. “Why do you think you’ll be kicked out?”

“I don’t think, I know.” Sherlock said, ignoring the annoyed sigh from Lestrade. “Most landlords don’t appreciate it when you leave thumbs on the kitchen table. Alas, I forgot to put them away.”

Sherlock turned to Lestrade, ignoring the way John’s mouth fell open in shock. Perhaps that had been a bit not good. “I really need to leave. Moving is so time consuming.”

Sherlock winked at John before sweeping out of the building, and he could feel the blonds eyes follow him the entire way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today (August 31st) is my birthday, and so as a birthday gift to all of you, I updated this fic! I apologize a million times over that it took so ridiculously long to do. I promise, there have been some very good reasons that I've been kept away from writing anything the last two months. Loads of personal family drama has been eating away at my time. (And it's of the happy sort, I swear. Once you get past the shock of it all. But getting past the shock really is the crux of the drama, isn't it?)  
> I thank you all so much for your unrelenting patience, and thank you so much for your lovely kudos, and for reading this. You are all so brilliant, and I adore each and every one of you. 
> 
> Marshmallow pies and Rodents Of Unusual Size,  
> Robottko


	3. Chapter 3

It had been a long day, and John Watson was glad to be heading home. The death of Oliver Witte, and subsequent threat on his own life left him emotionally drained, and he had been unable to keep his mind off a certain dark-haired Consulting Detective all day. Shrugging on his coat, he pulled out the business card that was given to him all those hours ago. John twirled the card between his fingers, slowly memorizing the number as he gazed down at the name: Sherlock Holmes; Consulting Detective. A unique name for a unique man.

John sighed, pocketing the card before he did something insanely stupid, like call the man. He had always had a thing for tall brunets, it didn’t matter which gender, and not only did Holmes fit the description, but he was brilliant to boot. He could hardly be faulted for developing a slight crush on the man, even though said man didn’t show the slightest hint of mutual attraction.

“Done for the day, Johnny?” A voice asked from behind him. John turned around to see a man in his early thirties, coppery hair sweeping across his forehead casually, and an infectious grin playing on his face. John grinned back brightly, running a hand through his short hair.

“Hey, Jack.” He replied casually. “Yeah, I’m all done. How goes the filming?”

Arguably the best cameraman at Treasure Island Media, Jack Collins was in high demand, filming twice as many scenes as any other cameraman in the rest of the company. With his huge smile and calming demeanour, it wasn’t difficult to see why.

“Only one more scene left today.” Jack replied with a shrug. “Then I get to head home. Do you have any plans later?”

“Sleep, if I can get it.” John said. “Nightmares keep me up most nights.”

“You just have to find someone to cosy up to at night.” Jack teased. “Maybe the man that caused you to ruin your solo scene today?”

John flushed slightly, rubbing a hand across his face in embarrassment. He had barely started a masturbation scene earlier that afternoon when Sherlock Holmes’s face popped into his mind. The last time he had come so quickly had been when he was thirteen, looking at porn for the first time. It had been humiliating.

“Ah…I don’t think so.” John shook his head. “I doubt he’s interested in me.”

“Never know until you try.” Jack said wisely, turning to the hallway leading further into the building. “Take a shot, Johnny. If anyone could make him interested, it would be you.”

John shook his head, waving goodbye to Jack before walking outside for the first time in hours. The sun was beginning to set, and the air felt blissfully cool against his skin. Pulling out the card again, John mentally listed why calling Sherlock would be a bad idea. He was so engrossed in his thoughts that he didn’t notice when a car began to follow him slowly. When he finally noticed it, it was already too late. He was too far away from the studio to shout for help, and the streets around him were deserted.

“I would suggest you get into the car, Doctor Watson.” A cool female voice said when a window opened. “We don’t want to keep him waiting.”

“Keep who waiting?” John bit out, still looking for escape routes. The woman, a gorgeous brunette, merely smiled at him before beginning to tap away at her mobile. John sighed before opening up the car door and sliding inside. He had barely closed the door when the car began to move, winding expertly through the back allies of London as if they kidnapped porn stars every day.

It wasn’t too long before they were pulling up to what looked like an abandoned warehouse. They drove through the wide door, entering the dark building. John hopped out of the car as soon as they pulled to a stop, his bad leg giving a slight twinge at the sudden movement. The old limp rarely acted up anymore, cured when he made his return to Treasure Island Media, the adrenaline fixing him far better than any therapist could.

“Ah, John Watson.” A voice echoed through the large room, and John turned to face the owner. The man was wearing a posh looking suit, and he had clutched in his hand an umbrella.

“I know you’re trying to be mysterious and all,” John began, striding towards his kidnapper. “But you really didn’t have to kidnap me.”

“I just wanted to have a chat.” The posh man replied easily, looking at John with a mixture of annoyance and interest. “I am hardly in the business of kidnapping. I was merely wondering what your connection is to Sherlock Holmes.”

“I don’t have one.” John replied easily. The man shot him an odd look, as if he could read John’s desire to rip the clothing off the Consulting Detective from across the room. “I met him this morning.”

“You met him this morning.” The man repeated, his voice drawling out the syllables as if they contained secrets. “Tell me, Doctor Watson, how does a man of your esteem get mixed up in the world of pornography?”

John smirked, shaking his head at the bluntness of the question. “It’s good money. Easy too. All I have to do is shag someone, and people give me money for it.” He responded. “After I got shot, I wasn’t qualified to go back to surgery; tremors make for bad sutures. I went back to the one job I could always succeed in.”

“Ah, but can you?” The man asked. “You aren’t getting any younger. I do believe your job opportunities will soon be dwindling.”

“Well, I’ll deal with that when the time comes.” John shrugged, trying not to appear affected by the words.

“Well, I have a job for you.” The man said smoothly, and John narrowed his eyes.

“No. I’m a porn star, not a prostitute.”

“That wasn’t what I had in mind.” The man said impatiently. “I was thinking more along the lines of…information.”

“On who?” John asked, relaxing slightly, though not letting down his guard.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“No.”

“No?” The man seemed surprised by his answer. “I haven’t even offered you a figure.”

“You don’t have to.” John said, crossing his arms over his chest. “No. That’s my final answer.”

“You’re very loyal, very quickly.” The man smirked.

“I’m not loyal at all. I just don’t _want_ to.” John huffed. “I think we’re done here.”

“Oh, are we?” The man asked, quirking his eyebrow. John rolled his eyes at the display, pulling out his phone and a certain business card.

“Yeah. We are.”

 

* * *

 

 

It appeared that Sherlock Holmes had indeed been kicked out of his old flat, though he already had a backup flat ready to go. The cab that John had acquired after the run in with the kidnapper pulled up to 221B, the address that had been given to him by a flustered sounding detective, just as Sherlock appeared, two boxes under his arms.

“Ah, Mr Holmes.” John greeted as he paid the cabbie.

“It’s Sherlock, John. I’ve already told you.” Sherlock replied, his eyes flickering across his face. John felt like those eyes could see everything, from his run in just that afternoon to what he had for breakfast that morning. “You called me. You sounded distressed. Who did you run into? Not the murderer, surely. Someone else?”

“A friend of yours.” John replied, running a hand across the back of his neck. “He decided it would be a good idea to kidnap me.”

“A friend?” Sherlock asked, looking momentarily confused. His expression cleared up quickly, an undiscernible emotion flicking over his face before settling into a cool mask. “Did he offer you money to spy on me?”

“Well, sort of. He wanted information.” John said.

“And did you take it?”

“Of course not.” John rolled his eyes.

“Pity.” Sherlock hummed, his eyes glittering now with a hint of mirth. “We could have split the fee. Think it through next time.”

John chuckled softly, glancing down at his scuffed shoes, desperately trying not to compare them to Sherlock’s shiny new ones. “You’re unbelievable, truly you are.”

“I’ve been called worse.” Sherlock smirked. “How do you feel about the violin?”

“Excuse me?” John looked back up, surprised by the non-sequitur.

“The violin. I play it when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days. Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.” Sherlock replied.

“Who said anything about flatmates?” John challenged.

“No one needed to.” Sherlock replied. “Your body language said it all. The kidnapping only exacerbated the fear over what happened this morning with Mr Witte. Naturally you would feel safer with someone else, but you aren’t close enough to any of your family members to go to them for help. You have a small bedsit, but you want to live somewhere bigger, and I have a flat with two rooms and am in desperate need for a flatmate.”

“That’s…spot on, actually.” John admitted. “You wouldn’t mind if I stayed with you?

“Not at all.” Sherlock said, “As I said, I am in need of a flatmate. Shall we?”

 

* * *

 

 

It didn’t take long for the two men to move into 221B Baker Street, and John found himself locked away in the upstairs room after being fed biscuits and tea by the landlady, Mrs Hudson. Sherlock had begun playing the violin, the sweeping melody had followed him up the stairs as John made weak excuses about getting some sleep. He hoped that Sherlock thought he was stressed about the attempt on his life rather than the sodding detective’s voice.

He had been half hard ever since he called Sherlock, and whenever he thought the danger had been averted, the tall git had to open his mouth and say something with his voice that was pure sex.

John groaned softly as he opened the fly to his jeans, pulling his cock free. He had neither the energy nor inclination of drawing this out, the need for release far too great. He pumped himself quickly, shocked to find the heat of orgasm already growing in his lower abdomen. Only a few more tugs did the trick, and John covered his mouth to muffle his moan of satisfaction. He grabbed a few tissues, cleaning up his mess carefully, happy to hear that the violin never wavered in its melody.

“Christ, Sherlock. What are you doing to me?” John muttered as he stripped down into his pants, climbing into bed. “It’s like I’m turning into a teenager all over again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, only a teeny bit of smut there. My plot is getting in the way of the porn, but I needed to give you guys a little something for all your troubles! (I know I know, it's only like a wisp of smut. I'm a terrible porn writer) Don't worry, my dearests, I promise you there will be more smut! (Pinky swear!)


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock had played the violin until about two in the morning. It was at that point that he remembered that John was sleeping upstairs, and every previous flatmate had been livid at his extended playing time. He didn’t want to scare away the man on the first day, though he knew that it would probably happen eventually. No one could stand him for longer than a week.

Placing his Stradivarius in its case with care, he moved to the leather sofa, flopping down on it haphazardly. While he should entertain the possibility of sleep, the fact that John Watson was currently residing in his flat made sleeping impossible.

 _How long will it be until John becomes annoyed with me?_ Sherlock wondered, placing his hands underneath his chin. The man is even better than he expected, a thirst for danger and a nurturing soul under the muscled exterior. He was also unbelievably loyal, turning down Mycroft’s offer without a second thought.

He pondered how he could make John’s inevitable leaving less severe, but by the time 6:00 rolled around, he could only think of two scenarios where it would be possible, and those all involved John leaving within the week.

With a sigh, Sherlock jumped off of the sofa, making his way to the bedroom to change. It would not do to have John see him in yesterday’s wrinkly clothes. While passing through the kitchen, he made sure to flip on the kettle so John would have some tea before leaving the flat.

It turned out that tea happened to be a good idea. Not only was waking John up decidedly difficult, but the look of surprise on John’s face, followed by the smile Sherlock received, was more than worth it.

“Come along, John.” He said, pushing the cup of tea into John’s hands. “We have crime scenes to see!”

“Wait, you want me to come along?” John asked, taking a sip of tea and making a sound that would be better suited to the bedroom. A sound that was done on purpose, if Sherlock was reading the quirk of his lips correctly.

“Naturally.” Sherlock responded, buttoning his coat so that John would be unable to see any visceral reaction to his blatant teasing. “I work better with an audience, and the skull attracts attention.”

“Skull?” John asked, “Oh, right. Your friend on the mantle. I’m just filling in for him?”

“Relax. You’re doing fine.” Sherlock smiled, winding his scarf around his neck. “You’d be of great use to me. Not only are you familiar with the men, but you were also a doctor.”

“Hang on.” John’s brow furrowed. “How did you know I was a doctor?”

“Well, you informed Lestrade and me that you were a soldier yesterday morning. Of course, that was obvious. No, I could tell from your caring nature and knowledge of the body that you are a doctor.”

“Brilliant!” John said, shaking his head. “That’s just…wait, what do you mean ‘knowledge of the body’?”

“Oh.” Sherlock froze, his face reddening slightly. “I may have watched some of your…videos. Purely for science.”

“You watched my videos?” A grin spread across John’s face, one that made Sherlock both aroused and nervous. “Which ones?”

“I don’t see why that is important.” Sherlock replied, turning away from John and heading down the stairs, John’s soft footsteps following him steadily.

“Oh, it’s very important.” John replied as they reached the landing. “I need to know if you watched me when I was fit, or if you were forced to watch my more recent films.”

“You’re still very fit, John.” Sherlock replied without thinking, and the smile on John’s face brightened.

“Thank you, though I must say my body is better in person, the telly always adds a few pounds. Would you like to see?”

Sherlock’s jaw dropped slightly, and before he could reorganize his thoughts a familiar voice interrupted them.

“Yoo Hoo!” Mrs Hudson called, stepping into the landing. She froze when she caught sight of the pair of them standing closer than what would be considered normal. “Oh, you must be _John_! Sherlock has told me so much about you!”

“Mrs Hudson.” Sherlock warned, his eyes flicking between the pair.

“Only good things, I hope.” John replied.

“Oh, the best.” Mrs Hudson took no note of Sherlock. “It’s so good to see that Sherlock has found someone. He’s always been so lonely.”

“Oh!” John’s eyes widened fractionally. “We’re not a couple.”

“No need to lie to an old biddy like me.” Mrs Hudson continued, flapping her hands at them cheerfully. “Mrs Turner’s got married ones next door.”

Sherlock chose that moment to make an escape, and he could hear John’s stammered goodbyes before he too joined him.

“So…you told her about me?” John began, teasing and something that Sherlock could easily mistake as hope dancing in his eyes.

“Oh shut up.” Sherlock replied without heat.

 

* * *

 

 

Checking out the crime scenes of the other two actors turned out to have less evidence than Oliver Witte’s dressing room. Of course, Sherlock expected as much; they had been considered accidents, not murders. Both died from anaphylaxis, and both within days of each other.

“Ormond Martinez was allergic to peanuts.” John explained as they made their way to St Bart’s hospital, Sherlock’s search proving futile. Now all he needed to do was examine the bodies, and talk to a few of John’s colleagues.  “Apparently he was given trail mix that had peanuts in it, but he didn’t realise. His allergy is so bad, he just needs to be in the same room to have a reaction.”

“What about Geoffrey Smith?” Sherlock asked with a frown. “It’s clear you know all about Martinez’s allergy. Was his as well-known too?”

“Well, we had to be informed about Ormond’s.” John replied. “We weren’t allowed to bring peanuts into the building to avoid an anaphylactic episode. I don’t think anyone knew Geoffrey’s except the production team.”

“Penicillin.” Sherlock mused aloud. “It’s an obvious fact that penicillin is derived from mould. I would think people would make the leap that certain kinds of cheeses could have a relationship to penicillin. It is derived from mould as well.”

“Yeah, most people aren’t as brilliant as you.” John replied, and the tips of Sherlock’s ears reddened with pleasure.

“A true statement.” Sherlock said, keeping his desire to preen in check. “But, nevertheless, it should be something all penicillin sufferers are aware of. Soft cheeses, like the brie found in Smith’s stomach, are especially dangerous. Of course, usually there isn’t enough to kill you, unless you consume copious amounts.”

“It’s strange.” John said as they entered Bart’s hospital, bypassing any secretaries and taking the lift to the morgue.

Sherlock didn’t reply, losing himself in thought as they entered the morgue. It was obvious that these men knew their murderer; no sign of a struggle, and consuming food that was given to them by the attacker said as much.

“Do you know anyone that would hold a grudge against these men and yourself?”

“Well, we’ve all won awards in our…erm…field.” John replied with a wry smile. “There’s a couple of blokes that haven’t in Treasure Island media, but the most outspoken about it is _Trembles.”_

“You’re not talking about Victor Trevor, are you?” Sherlock asked sharply, ignoring the door that opened to allow Molly Hooper to enter.

“Yeah.” John replied, brow furrowing in confusion. “You know him?”

“Of course.” Sherlock replied. “He went to school with me. He was my first kiss.”

“ _Trembles_ got to kiss _you_?” John said, his voice coloured with disbelief. “Lucky bastard.”

For the second time that day, Sherlock’s thoughts were left scrambled by John Watson, and for the second time, someone came to his rescue, albeit unknowingly.

“Er…hello!” Molly said from behind them, and Sherlock turned to look at her. “I have the bodies, and a few of the things that they had on their bodies when they died, like Geoffrey Smith’s epi-pen.”

“Epi-pen?” Sherlock asked. “He used his epi-pen?”

“Yep!” Molly chimed in cheerfully, though her gaze kept flickering towards John every few seconds. “There is an injection mark on his outer thigh. The medicine didn’t have enough time to spread through his system to stop the anaphylactic shock, though.”

“No, of course it didn’t.” Sherlock mumbled, walking around Molly and heading for the body of Geoffrey Smith, ignoring Martinez for the moment. “John!”

“Do you need something?” John asked, walking over towards the body.

“Yes.” Sherlock replied, “Tell me what you see.”

John frowned at him, but he did as Sherlock demanded, looking over Smith’s body. He was average in every way possible, and the only reason Sherlock knew of him from before was because he shared a movie with John a few years back. Not that Sherlock paid any mind to Smith, his brown hair and peach skin allowed him to fade into the background.

“Well, he died of anaphylaxis.” John began slowly, “A rash has spread over his body, and his eyes are swollen shut. He had a lot of exposure to the allergen.”

“Good.” Sherlock praised, matching John’s beaming smile. “Look here, on his arm. What do you see?”

“Bruising.” John murmured. “It wraps around his wrist...both of them.”

“His arms were held in place.” Sherlock confirmed. “The injection happened just before death. The angle that the injection happened makes it impossible for Smith to have tried to save himself, so the murderer wanted to make it look like Smith tried to save himself. Tell me, John. Were Victor and Smith close?”

“They used to be.” John answered. “But Victor wasn’t happy when Smith won a probie for a scene they shared together.”

“I think it’s time we pay your colleges a visit.” Sherlock said with a grim smile. “Thank you Molly, we’ll be back later.”

“Should I be worried that we’re visiting your old school crush?” John asked innocently.

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry too much about it.” Sherlock said with a raise of an eyebrow, moving around the autopsy table and heading for the door. “I prefer blonds.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, the lack of smut in the chapter is ridiculous I know. So sorry about the long wait between chapters. I am so lame, but you are all so marvelous!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On this day, August 31st, in 1990, a child by the name of Robottko was born. It was decreed that every year on her birthday, she shall update every fanfiction that is a WIP. So, it is with great honor that I present to you this update.

John Watson had never liked Victor Trevor very much. The man was cocky, rude, and far too narcissistic for his own good. He put on a decent show for the cameras, but as far as John knew, he was a bad lay. Not that John had ever shared a scene with him, mind, but he had friends that had. Good news travels fast.

Trevor sat in his dressing room chair, legs spread wide as if he were trying to claim dominance. Or seduce Sherlock. Now that he thought about it, the second was far more likely, going by the way Trevor was undressing Sherlock with his eyes.

“Sherlock Holmes, long time no see.” Trevor said, grinning lazily. “I hear you’re a detective. That’s very impressive.”

“Consulting detective.” Sherlock said, his voice laced with boredom. “How did you know Geoffrey Smith?”

“Geoff?” Trevor said, causing John to wrinkle his nose in disgust; Geoffrey had hated being called Geoff. “We did a scene together. He was a bit of a prick, and not the good kind.”

“You didn’t like him. Why?” Sherlock was watching Trevor intently now, and John had to hold back the little surge of jealousy.

“He won a probie off of our scene, and they barely mentioned me.” Trevor rolled his eyes, crossing his arms now. “Of course, the camera focused on Geoff the majority of the time. That’s Jack Collin’s fault; he had a crush on Geoff.”

“Jack Collins?” Sherlock asked in confusion.

“Our camera man.” John answered, pleased when Sherlock turned to look at him. “He’s good at his work, and focuses on the person with the better facial reactions.” A slight dig a Trevor, which didn’t go unnoticed.

“Jack followed Geoff around like a puppy.” Trevor said, visibly sour now. “It was annoying really.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock said, watching Trevor for a moment before deciding something. “While you may be jealous, you hardly have the motivation or the skill to successfully kill Geoffrey Smith, Ormond Martinez, or Oliver Witte, let alone all three.”

“Wait, I was a suspect?” Trevor asked, his eyes widening as he looked between John and Sherlock. “Well, I would say I was offended, but I’m just upset you never put me in handcuffs. You still can, Sherlock, if you’d like.”

“Oh my god.” John glared at Trevor, who smiled innocently back in response. “You have no off switch, do you?”

“Not for someone that looks like Sherlock.” Trevor smirked. “He’s even more gorgeous now than he was in Uni. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice, John.”

“Piss off.” John replied, grabbing Sherlock by the arm and leading him away. Of course, Trevor couldn’t help but shout out a parting shot.

“You can arrest me anytime, gorgeous!”

John was seething, and he had half a mind to punch Trevor in the face, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him. He looked up to see Sherlock, confusion on his face.

“I suppose I can’t blame him.” John sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “You _are_ gorgeous. Ridiculously so.”

The faint red that spread across Sherlock’s cheeks was stunning, and John had half a mind to kiss it away, but he stopped himself.

“Who is this Jack Collins?” Sherlock asked after a minute, and he still looked adorably flustered.

“Do you want me to introduce you to him?” John asked.

“It’s important to interview as many people as I can.”

“Right, well, he’s filming a scene of mine in half an hour.” John replied. “I can introduce you to him, if you wish.”

“That would be excellent.” Sherlock replied. “I’m wondering if this isn’t the work of a jealous co-star, but of a homophobic crew member.”

“You think someone would join Treasure Island media to kill off gay porn stars?” John asked in disbelief.

“Perhaps they found themselves enjoying the scenes too much.” Sherlock replied, “And so they killed in retribution. I’ll just need to be in the room while a scene is being filmed.”

“You could do me.” John offered, wincing at the horrid double entendre. “What I mean is, uh, I have a scene coming up here. Might as well get it out of the way.”

“I…yes.” Sherlock replied, looking flustered again. “That would be a…uh…good idea.”

“Great.” John grinned, placing a hand on Sherlock’s back, leading him towards his dressing room. “Jack should be in my changing room. He’ll get you into a less…conspicuous outfit.”

“What’s wrong with the way I dressed?” Sherlock complained, and John raked his eyes over Sherlock’s form.

“Absolutely nothing, but you look like a posh supermodel. You need to look…less supermodel…yeah?”

“Fine.” Sherlock said, trying to sound grumpy. The smile on his face ruined the whole effect, and John smiled in return.

 

* * *

 

 

“You want him to do _what_ , now?” Jack Collins asked, running a hand through his coppery hair. “I dunno about this, Johnny…”

“It’ll be fine.” John said, waving a hand at Jack as he hid himself behind a curtain. “Just…dress him up as crew, give him a fake camera, something.”

“Fine.” Jack’s voice was muffled only slightly by the curtain. “You’ll need jeans and a t-shirt. I think I have an extra pair around here somewhere.”

Footsteps and the sound of rustling clothes filled the silence, and John changed into red pants with a y-front, something that seemed to be becoming his signature look. He quickly covered the rest of his body with a robe, stepping out just in time to see Sherlock pulling on a worn white shirt.

“Alright, I’m good to go.” John grinned at Sherlock and Jack. “How about you guys?”

“Always ready for action, Johnny.” Jack winked at him. “You’re doing a solo scene today? Always my favourite.”

“That way you don’t have to focus on two faces, yeah?” John chuckled, leading the men to the room they would be filming in. A squashy red armchair sat in the middle, blanked thrown over the back of it to give it a homey feel.

“Ready whenever you are.” Jack said, giving John a thumbs up, handing a boom mic to Sherlock. The other camera men took their positions, all looking professional, and not the least like homophobic murderers. John was not the detective in the situation, however, and he hoped that Sherlock would be able to see what he couldn’t.

“Right.” John said, stripping off his robe, plopping down in the red armchair and flinging a leg over one armrest. He looked up at Sherlock, grinning at his flushed cheeks and glazed eyes. His cock perked up in interest, and John knew that he had to put on a show for this beautiful man.


	6. Chapter 6

John looked, in Sherlock's opinion, absolutely perfect. Where the television screen had dimmed his personality, he practically glowed in real life. 

Sherlock swallowed audibly as John plopped down on the red armchair, flinging a leg over the armrest in the most innocently inviting move Sherlock had ever seen.

Not that he often saw men doing such a move.

"Ready?" John asked, resting a hand on his inner thigh as he waited for Jack Collins to finish with his preparations.

"All good to go." Jack replied, grinning at John. 

Sherlock tore his eyes away from John, surreptitiously watching the other crew members. No one appeared to be anything other than professionally invested, which annoyed Sherlock. If the killer wasn't here, then where was he?

Sherlock suppressed a sigh, turning back to John. 

John's eyes were locked on him, eyes hazy with lust as he slowly stroked a hand over his clothed cock. Any thought of the case derailed as he stared back, unable to tear his eyes away from that gorgeous sight.

John grinned, dragging one hand up to his chest. Sherlock watched, mesmerized as he smoothed his hand down his torso, pausing to dip under the white waistband of the red pants.

Eye contact was lost as John touched himself, flinging his head back against the back of the chair in pleasure. Sherlock took a moment of his freedom to glance at the sound and film crew, who were still perfectly composed.

"That's it, John." Collins murmured, and Sherlock turned to look once more, swallowing thickly when he saw that John had freed his cock from the cover of his pants, stroking it lazily as he watched Sherlock.

God, but Sherlock couldn't help but react, his cock twitching in interest as John continued to stroking himself. Sherlock tried to shift subtly, but the movement was followed closely by John, eyes flicking down momentarily to see that Sherlock was half hard in his borrowed jeans.

John flashed him a victorious grin that Sherlock couldn't hope to interpret, before throwing his opposite leg over the other arm of the chair, spreading himself for the camera.

_For me._

Somehow, John had managed to get his red pants out of the way, though Sherlock couldn't be bothered to remember how. They hung forgotten, wrapped around one ankle as John snaked a hand down, circling a finger around his most intimate entrance. 

"Oh god." John groaned as he pushed his finger in gently, slowly thrusting as his body stretched around him. Sherlock's mouth practically watered as John added a second and third finger, his other hand still working his cock in time with the thrusts. 

With John coming undone in front of him, soft moans escaping from his mouth, Sherlock couldn't help but be painfully hard. He shifted ever so slightly, placing a nonchalant hand over the bulge in his jeans. He gave his cock a slight squeeze, hoping to alleviate the pressure somewhat.

Of course, John had chosen that moment to glance downward, his eyes going wide when his brain realised what Sherlock's hand was doing.

"Oh  _god_!" He cried, coming suddenly with a shout. "Sher- _ah_!"

Sherlock let go of himself immediately, not wanting to come in his pants like a teenager. He was dangerously close as it was, watching John come down from what looked like a pleasurable orgasm.

"Aaaaand cut!" Collins said, turning off the camera. "We have a few things to edit out, but other than that, great work John.”

_Great work, indeed._

Sherlock walked slowly over to John, making sure to look everywhere but him. Walking with an erection was uncomfortable, and he hoped the sensation would pass quickly. John stood, unashamed of his naked body, and Sherlock could tell that John was grinning.

“I have…well, not everything I need, but certainly-”

“I don’t think it’s any of these men, Sherlock.” John cut him off, slinging his robe around his shoulders. “They’ve been working with me for years. And never mind about work right now, I have something to show you.”

Sherlock followed John wordlessly to his dressing room, trying to figure out who could be behind the deaths of the three porn stars. Maxwell Jones was still a likely suspect, yet he lacked a decent motive. Perhaps, if Sherlock managed to get him alone-

Any thought of Maxwell Jones and murder cases went completely out the window when Sherlock found himself pressed up against the closed door of John’s dressing room, a still-flushed John caging him in with muscled arms.

“It would be terribly rude of me to force you to walk around like that all day.” John said, his eyes flickering meaningfully down towards Sherlock’s crotch. Sherlock couldn’t help but blush, trying to will away his erection. “Shall I take care of it for you?”

_Perhaps the erection could be good after all._


	7. Chapter 7

John laughed softly, enjoying the way Sherlock's face went bright red at his suggestion. His eyes blinked rapidly, and John wondered privately if Sherlock's brain was short circuiting. 

"I mean, I won't if you don't want me to," John amended, not wanting to make Sherlock uncomfortable. "But if you-"

"Yes," Sherlock interrupted, looking excited and a bit nervous. "God, yes. Please."

John grinned at Sherlock, leaning into his personal space at an excruciatingly slow pace. John watched as Sherlock's breath caught in his throat, body trembling as he waited for contact. When John's lips brushed against the exposed skin of Sherlock's neck, the man let out a gasp of air. 

"So responsive," John murmured against his skin. "I've barely done anything."

"Please," Sherlock said again, and John couldn't help but oblige him. He peppered kisses along Sherlock's neck, nipping softly at his soft skin.

With steady fingers, John unbuttoned Sherlock shirt. He traced small circles on Sherlock's chest with his fingers, his mouth busy creating a love bite that would be visible no matter how hard Sherlock tried to hide it. 

Once John was satisfied with his work, he began to trail kisses down Sherlock's chest, stopping only to give attention to Sherlock's nipples. He swirled his tongue around once...twice...then moved to the other one, doing the same. Only once Sherlock was clinging to his shoulder did John continue his downward movement; a pleased smirk on his face.

"John," Sherlock gasped as John undid the last button, brushing the fabric out of his way as he worked open the button on his trousers. "John, please."

"So impatient," John chided softly, tugging down the zipper. He let his fingers brush at the fabric on Sherlock's straining cock, and the man bucked forward, trying desperately to get more friction. 

"I want to..." Sherlock seemed to be at a loss for words. "Please, can I?"

"Reciprocate?" John asked, his smile going soft. "Trust me, Sherlock. You've already done. I'm just doing my best pay you back."

"How did I-"

"Completely ruin me?" John interrupted, mouthing at Sherlock's covered cock. "I saw you, trying not to touch yourself. I saw you give in. In all my years in this business, I have never met anyone that could completely undo me like you have."

John caught the waistband of Sherlock's pants with his teeth, holding eye contact as he tugged downward. Sherlock's cock sprung free, hard and leaking with precum. 

"God, look at you, you beautiful man," John said, turning his focus to Sherlock's cock. "I've been wanting to do this since I met you."

Sherlock was unable to respond. He was practically shaking with desire as he waited for John to make his next move.

John grinned up at Sherlock one last time before leaning forward, pressing his tongue against the head of Sherlock's cock. 

At Sherlock small gasp, John sucked his cock into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the head twice before slowly moving down his shaft.

John worked slowly, bringing his hand up to stroke Sherlock's balls. 

"John!" Sherlock cried, his knees buckling. John caught him before he collapsed completely, shifting Sherlock so he was laying down in front of him, legs spread wide. His mouth only left Sherlock once he was settled.

"Let me take care of you," John said, continuing to stroke with his hand. 

Sherlock nodded, looking a bit dazed. "No one has ever...there hasn't..."

"No one took care of you like this?" John asked. "It's a shame you're so close, because I have so much I still want to do to you. Next time, then."

"Next...?" Sherlock asked, trying to focus on John. 

John laughed before placing his mouth on Sherlock's cock once again, hollowing his cheeks to create better suction.

Apparently that was all Sherlock could handle, as he gave once last cry of John's name before coming. 

John swallowed quickly, wiping at the corners of his mouth before leaning forward to kiss Sherlock. 

"You didn't even get me out of my pants," Sherlock teased breathlessly, and John looked down to where Sherlock's trousers and pants were bunched around his thighs. 

"Mm, next time we'll both be naked," John replied, ruffling Sherlock's curls fondly.

"Next time...you want to do this again?"

John grinned, opening his mouth to tell Sherlock that  _of course_ he wants to do this again; a knock on the door interrupted him, however. 

"One mo.'!" John called, standing up and fixing his robe before pulling Sherlock up as well.

"God, you take ages to change," Jack Collins' voice called through the door. 

John snorted, only opening the door when Sherlock was decent. "I gotta look pretty."

"You already do." Jack said, grinning brightly when the door opened. "Oh, what's this?"

"The person I gotta look pretty for," John replied nonchalantly, grabbing Sherlock's hand. "Now, I have to get going. It's been a long day."

"Mm." Jack agreed, merely raising his eyebrow and their clasped hands. "Remember, we have an early shoot tomorrow."

"I'm always early," John replied. "You know me."

"Ever the soldier," Jack winked. "See you then."

John led Sherlock past Jack and down the hall, still holding his hand. 

"I've been thinking," Sherlock said. "About my bed."

"I like that line of thinking. Go on."

"Well, it's a large bed," Sherlock replied, "and yours is so small. Really, we should both use it."

"Are you asking me to come to bed at with you?" John asked. "How scandalous."

"It's the least I can do," Sherlock replied. "I owe you."

"Trust me, you don't owe me anything," John said, licking his lips without thinking. "I enjoyed that more than you did."

They walked the rest of the way to Baker Street hand in hand, chatting inanely as they walked. For the first time since Oliver Witte's suicide note, John felt completely safe. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been ages and ages since I've updated this and I am so sorry but I am utter trash let's be real. I pinky swear promise that I will finish this fic (only focusing on this one until its done!)
> 
> I love you and I'm sorry. I hope the porn makes up for it a teensy little bit?


	8. Chapter 8

It had been ages since the last time John woke up with someone beside him, and he couldn't remember it feeling this good. 

He stretched gently, opening one eye to look at the sleeping man before him. Sherlock looked more peaceful in sleep than John had ever seen him. John smoothed a hand through Sherlock's wild curls, grinning when he hummed in his sleep.

"I'll see you later tonight," John said, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's temple. 

He extracted himself from Sherlock's grip, grabbing his dirty laundry from Sherlock's floor and tossing it in the laundry pile as he went. 

Dressing quickly, he made his way downstairs and out the door, locking it behind himself before hailing a cab.

The ride over to the studio was quick, London traffic light in the early morning, and John found himself lost in thought. Soon, Sherlock would find out who killed John's colleagues, and would move on to a new case. It was only inevitable that Sherlock would stop coming around the studio, and the very thought made John suddenly ill.

He had grown rather attached to Sherlock, John mused as he paid the cabbie and stepped out into the empty parking lot. Very attached, and in such a short amount of time, too. 

John unlocked the door, stepping into the dark studio. A single light from the dressing room illuminated the hall, and John followed it, stretching as he went.

"Jack, is that you?" He called out.

"Hey, yeah!" Jack called out after a moment, popping his head out of the dressing room. His copper hair gleamed as bright as his smile in the dim light. "Come on back, I'm just getting ready."

John grinned back before entering the dressing room, kicking off his shoes. "Excellent. So, what are we doing today?"

Jack ignored him, however, fixing John with an odd look. "That guy you were with...the detective. Are you two a thing?"

"Yeah, we are," John chuckled. "At least, we've shagged a couple times."

"Oh Johnny, I was hoping you weren't going to say that," Jack said, a rueful smile on his face.

Then, everything went black.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock knew something was wrong when he saw John's shoes later that morning.

He had made his way over to the studio under the guise of looking for more clues (really, he was just hoping to catch sight of John, as he had already seen everything he could have learned from the crime scene.

He had stuck his head into the dressing room, frowning when he saw John's shoes laying haphazardly on the ground. John was a military man, and he always made sure his shoes were neat and out of the way, yet his shoes were strewn as though he had just kicked them off. 

"John," Sherlock heart began to race as he realised John had been taken. "Damn it!"

Sherlock sprinted through the building, skidding to a stop in front of Maxwell Jones's office. 

"Where is John Watson?" Sherlock ground out, pleased to see Jones looking startled, frozen in the act of taking off his coat.

"How in the devil should I know?" Jones asked once he regained some composure. "I don't keep track of our talents' schedules. That's what I hired Jack Collins for."

"Jack Collins..." Sherlock repeated slowly.

"Hey now, don't go trying to pin this all on Jack," Jones shoot a beefy finger at him. "He's the best cameraman we've got. He goes out of his way to make sure our talent remains happy and comfortable. He knows all their likes and dislikes, and hell, I think he even has everyone's allergies memorised so that no one has any bad reactions.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Jones, watching as the man's own words began to sink in. Jones turned an impressive shade of purple, his eyes widening ever so slightly.

"You don't think..."

"I absolutely do," Sherlock interrupted stiffly, "and now he has John."

"Are you sure?" Jones asked, his normally booming voice weak.

"Witte, Martinez, and Smith all show indications of trusting their killer. John shows the same indication in his shoes."

"His shoes?" Jones was baffled

"Yes, his shoes." Sherlock snapped. "He kicked them off, as if he were getting prepared. They're not flung about haphazardly, as if he were struggling, but neither are they tucked neatly away in his corner of the room, as he is wont to do. Now tell me. Where. Is. Collins?"

 

 

* * *

 

 

John groaned as he came to, his head giving a particularly painful throb that almost knocked him out again. 

"Johnny!" Jack's voice cut through the pain. "You're awake."

"Jack?" John blinked, glancing around to see that he was in his old bedsit. He hadn't been here since he moved in with Sherlock a few days ago.

"It's pretty empty in here," Jack mused, "You didn't spend a lot of time here before, but moving in with that stupid detective didn't help matters."

"How do you know that?" John frowned. "Jack...what is going on?"

"I know everything, Johnny." Jack smiled hollowly. "You belong to me, and I take care of what's mine."

"I don't belong to anyone," John said, moving to stand up. It was at that moment that he realised he was bound to a chair, his arms tied securely at his side.

"That's what the others said too," Jack sighed, sitting down in front of John. "But the problem is, I don't like sharing."

"Excuse me?" John choked out.

"It's simple," Jack said pleasantly, before his whole face darkened in a way that made John shiver. "If I can't have you, no one can."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Maxwell Jones had been decidedly unhelpful, Sherlock decided as he hailed a cab. Thankfully, Lestrade had showed up not long after Sherlock had arrived, and he left the two of them together.

The deaths of Geoffrey Smith and Ormond Martinez occurred in the safety of their own homes, made to look accidental. Oliver Witte had been killed in the studio, and would have come off as an accident as well, had he not carved the note into the counter top. It seemed the logical conclusion that John would be brought to his old bedsit, the last place Jack Collins would remember John living. 

He was immensely grateful that he had helped John move in to 221B. Not only because of the time he had been allowed to spend with John, but it made finding the bedsit much easier. 

The cabbie was more than happy when Sherlock told him to stop in front of the bedsit, and he drove off before Sherlock could get the door closed.

Sherlock let out a huff, straightened his Belstaff, and made his way into the building.

 

* * *

 

 

"He'll find you," John said softly, and Jack perked up.

"Are you talking about your detective boyfriend?" Jack grinned. "I'm counting on it."

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock frowned to himself as he listened outside the door. So his presence was expected, and even planned for. Because he wasn't aware of any allergies Sherlock had, that meant he planned to kill him outright. Jack Collins was done with his careful killing, and that made him all the more dangerous.

Shooting off a quick text to Lestrade, Sherlock knocked quickly on the door.

After a minute of silence, the door creaked open, and Sherlock could see John peeking out at him.

"Er...sorry Mrs...Uh...Henderson. I don't have any sugar, so you'll have to-"

"Come now, Johnny boy," Jack's voice interrupted, "Don't insult my intelligence, I know it’s Mr Holmes on the other side of that door. Let him in so we can have a nice long chat."

Before John could react, Sherlock pushed past him, focussing instead on Jack.

"You deliberately left John's shoes where they fell. You knew I would notice."

"You certainly didn't disappoint," Jack replied, and Sherlock noticed the gun he was twirling in his hands. "I wasn't very happy with you when you first starting showing up in my studio, but then you went and tried to take my Johnny away from me."

"It's hardly my fault you were so inept at killing Oliver Witte that he had time to write a note," Sherlock watched as Jack's face darkened. "Did you brag about how you did it too? My my, how very melodramatic of you."

"Oliver was a better actor than I gave him credit for," Jack sniffed lightly. "He managed to convince me he had died in the middle of anaphylactic shock."

Jack held out the gun, pointing it at Sherlock's chest. "I told him that at least Johnny boy would never leave me, but he made a liar out of me, didn't he?"

"Jack, put away the gun," John said, watching it warily. "Sherlock hasn't done anything. I'm the one who chased after him." 

"Johnny, you're not really making matters better for Mr Detective here," Jack said cheerfully.

"You think they're performing for you, don't you?" Sherlock asked, sneering at Jack. It was risky, to deliberately draw Jack's ire, but it was the only way Sherlock could get the upper hand. "You think that just because you're the camera man, then they're imagining  _you_!"

"Shut up!" Jack snapped, his grin withering into a vicious snarl. "Shut up, you don't know anything!"

"I know your type, Jack Collins," Sherlock replied haughtily. "A sad, lonely man who thinks everything and everyone is entitled to him, when he really deserves-"

Sherlock was interrupted with a shove, and he belatedly realised that John had pushed him out of the way of Jack's bullet. 

Sherlock hit the ground, rolling quickly to his side. Looking up, he was hardly surprised to discover that John had a tight grip around Jack's torso, the gun laying just out of reach.

"Thank you, John." Sherlock said, ruffling his curls. "And you too, Jack. That shot was the final proof I needed to have you put behind bars."

"You bastard," Jack coughed, struggling against John as a large group of armed officers began to swarm into the tiny bedsit.

Sherlock had never seen Lestrade's team work so quickly booking a suspect. In only a matter of minutes Jack was in handcuffs, the gun bagged, and the room being roped off for further evidence. 

"So, I guess this is it, huh?" John broke through Sherlock's thoughts, and he was surprised to find themselves outside the bedsit. 

"There you are, you were so quiet on the way down, I thought you had gone deaf." John said, faux cheerily.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock frowned at him.

"Deaf, you know, as in loss of-"

"I know what being deaf entails," Sherlock interrupted, "and I also know when someone is avoiding the question. What did you mean before? You 'guess this is it'?"

"Oh, yeah," John rubbed his scalp with his left hand. "Well, us being roommates and all."

"I don't believe most roommates have sex, John," Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "though you would be more qualified to speak on that, I suppose."

John laughed, and it looked as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. "No, you're right. So, you're alright if I stick around, then? I don't think I'll be allowed back here."

"I'll only be happy if you continue to occupy my bed," Sherlock replied.

John laughed again, and then pulled Sherlock into a fierce kiss.

"How touching," A voice said, and suddenly John was no longer clinging to Sherlock, but glaring accusingly at the man.

"That's the man who kidnapped me!" John said, pointing. 

"I meant to yell at you earlier for kidnapping John," Sherlock huffed, stepping next to John so he could better glare at their visitor.

Mycroft Holmes stood there, his three piece suit impeccable as always. "Come now, no need to be dramatic, what would mummy say?"

"She'd tell you to keep your fat nose to yourself," Sherlock spit back.

"Wait...mummy?" John's anger had cooled, and now he was looking between Mycroft and Sherlock in confusion. "This man isn't..."

"Isn't what?" Mycroft asked.

"I dunno, a criminal mastermind?"

"He could be," Sherlock replied, causing Mycroft to scoff loudly.

"Really."

"Don't kidnap my boyfriend again," Sherlock snipped, warming when John put a protective arm around him.

"I can't guarantee anything," Mycroft countered. "But I know I'll be seeing you around. Mummy will be so pleased to meet your new boyfriend."

"I'm sure she will," Sherlock agreed, lacing his fingers through John's. "Now please leave us alone. I plan on having a lot of sex with John now that the case is over."

John choked beside him, and Sherlock looked over at him with surprise. "You perform sexual acts for money on camera, John. Why so bashful now?"

"Not exactly how I wanted our first meeting to go, ta." John said, his cheeks pink.

"But it's not your first-"

"And we're leaving now," John cut him off, dragging him away from Mycroft. "Goodbye, Mr Holmes."

"Goodbye, Dr Watson." Mycroft replied before they snuck away in a cab.

Lestrade would be annoyed later, and would make Sherlock do piles of paperwork later as punishment for leaving the crime scene, but for tonight, it was just the two of them.

 

* * *

 

 

"I've turned in my resignation at Treasure Island Media," John announced over breakfast about a month later. 

"Why?" Sherlock asked, frowning in confusion. "This isn't some attempt to make me feel better, is it? The notion that sex work is degrading is simply ridicu-"

"Sherlock," John interrupted, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "While I appreciate you being supportive of my career, I'd just...rather it not be my career anymore. Besides, I hear you're in need of an assistant, and if I spend my mornings at the studio, I'll never have enough energy to accompany you."

"My...assistant?" Sherlock blinked rapidly. "You want to join me on cases?"

"I'm a doctor," John reminded Sherlock with a wink. 

"A damn good one too, I hear." Sherlock replied seriously. 

"Naturally," John said, grabbing his empty plate as he stood, brushing a kiss to Sherlock's cheek as he passed. "Much better than Anderson."

Sherlock's phone started to ring, and John just barely caught a glimpse of Lestrade's name on the screen before the called was answered.

"What is it, Lestrade? Serial suicides? Four? Yes, we'll be right there." Sherlock ended the call as promptly as he started it, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

"Serial suicides?" John asked, raising an inquiring brow.

"Four of them, no connections," Sherlock said cheerfully. "And now there's a note; oh, it's Christmas."

"Now I know what to get you for Christmas," John chuckled softly. "Shall we go, then?"

He held out his hand in invitation, and Sherlock hesitated for a moment before lacing his fingers through John's, a pleased smile overtaking the manic one. 

"Come, John. The game is on!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy buckets, another update! And we've crossed the finish line!  
> Thank you to everyone who stuck with this story, waiting for my erratic updates (which I don't really have an excuse for, honestly. I just suck) and thank you to the new people who are reading this too.
> 
>  
> 
> Yes. You. Right there. I love you.
> 
> Come visit me on [tumblr](http://robottko.tumblr.com/), where I post 89% Sherlock, and 11% whatever catches my attention for that brief moment in time.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [tumblr](http://robottko.tumblr.com/) for more ficlets, fandom raving, and fun. Also alliteration, apparently. (ha!)


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